Of Harmony and of God's Song
by Behind Your Cover
Summary: (Only Prelude up) NeverwhereThe Dark Is Rising fusion The marqius de Carabas is beginning to understand the mysteries of London Below, having bartered for a strange ancient book that may hold the answers. The lines between enemies and allies, new and old


**_Prelude de Melody_**

**Of Harmony and of God's Song**

Neverwhere/The Dark Is Rising Crossover

* * *

It had been an altogether quiet day, aside from choice snide comments from coworkers, and concerned remarks from students. Or it could have been the other way around. Despite all its peacefulness, he still felt uncomfortable in his own skin, so to speak; fidgety all day long in wait for something. It seemed his nerves and subconscious knew something that he didn't; and, in fact, indeed they did really, withholding the choice information his life was about to get more exciting, slowly, yes, but steadily.

As if on cue, a knock jarred Will Stanton from his thoughts, tearing the sentence he was reading into several small pieces. He sat rather out of place in the dusty study, packed as high as he could manage to the ceiling in books of all shapes, densities and topics; he looked more like an overgrown school boy marking up his father's books. But then his posture changed, and he sat regally, all at once the rather foreboding professor he seemed to be by day.

He stood, now, lord of his home study, "Who is it?"

On the other side of the door a white grin was flashed, and a large, black hand turned the doorknob and let himself in. He closed the door behind him, a man of average height and dark features, and leaned against it casually. He held a rather large bundle to his chest in his other arm, dust soiling his black coat to the point it was white in most places.

"Hello, young professor," he flashed another grin and crossed the room.

Will opened his mouth to speak. A lot of questions came to mind, but none of them he seemed to deem appropriate for this strange visitor. And very quickly Will realized that, for the first time, he did not feel at all comfortable sitting in his high-backed office chair, student essays askew in front of him. Not while this strange dark man loomed over the desk whilst smiling a smile that was far too white for his face and catlike to be reassuring.

"No, no," said the marquis quickly, "I'll speak, and you'll listen, Watchmen. A great many years, I allowed my good deed in favor of the Light to go uncompensated for—"

"Who are you?" asked Will, having sat down and was now stacking the essays into neat piles, trying to appear less concerned than he was. "Why are you in my house?"

"—As I was saying, I allowed my actions to go uncompensated for... a very long time. A terribly long time, and normally I would let it go further until needed, because what I did, your Masters promised me a _very_ big favor for..." the dark man paused, then smiled a more reassuring smile. "But since you asked, young Old One, I am called the marquis de Carabas. One who aided the Lord Merriman in such a small way it was a big one. And so I have come to collect my dues."

Will cursed under his breath. Merriman had failed to mention this de Carabas character. This man could want anything, this Marquis, and because the Light had seemed to have made a pact with him, he would have to do it. Because he was the very last and only left to answer and repay any debts.

"What do you want in return, sir, marquis?" sighed Will politely, in his most businesslike manner, though how shattered his inner composure was.

It had been a good thing that Will had moved his paper, lest they be all over the floor by now. The marquis hefted the ancient bundle he had been holding out of the crook of his arm, allowing it to drop in a puff of dust. Once the dust had settled, de Carabas leaned over it, resting his hands on either side of it and grinned as if he had the cage of finches in his hands, and all he had to do was open it.

"This, my good professor, is something of most importance," His expression grew to a more grave smile. "I want to know: what it says, who wrote it, when they wrote it, where it was written, who would want it now and why, along with anything else you can find out about it."

Will narrowed his eyes at the face that was very suddenly too close to his and then leaned forward to examine the bundle more carefully, brushing off dust that came off in clumps of chalky gray fuzz. The strange old paper that covered the bundled folded away at his touch. Beneath it was a leather cover, old, yet still golden, engraved letters sunken into it, tied with a strip of old rotting leather. The words engraved were unmistakably French.

"_Sans Feuilles Année..._" read Will softly to himself. He looked up at the marquis in almost amusement, "French?"

"Delve a bit deeper," he said stepping back, bowing in what Will could not tell was respect, or a mock of it, "You'll figure it out. You owe me, remember."

Will narrowed his eyes in suspicion, standing up behind his desk, "If you know so much," said the professor, "then why don't you do this yourself?"

"Oh, but you could manage it much more efficiently than I, Old One, and besides," he smiled his large white smile again, "I have more... imminent things to attend to. Live wires. I will be back to check on how you're doing soon." But as the marquis' hand reached the door he paused as if waiting for something, and after a few moments of silence, he shot him a thoughtful look over his shoulder.

"What is it now?" asked Will.

"You actually are beginning to act like your former master Merriman. And I did know him well, I can tell you that truthfully," said de Carabas equably. Then the facade of nostalgia left him and a smile reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat reigned once more, "Have a nice night, Will Stanton."

The door clicked as politely as a door can, and a book slid off of a stack and onto the floor. Will didn't pick it up, he didn't move for a very long time. When he did move, he stood very slowly, as if every bone in his body ached from age, and shuffled to the door and out of the study. He closed the door behind him, noting the dusty, filthy footprints leading down the hall and to a now open window, but scarcely cared.

All he wanted to do was fall into his sheets and go to sleep; he would have enough to think about in the morning.

End Prelude


End file.
